Thursday, February 11, 2010
In praise of twelve-year old boys
It's not easy. He hit puberty early. At eleven his voice changed, he grew a foot, and he started needing to shave his upper lip once a week. He'll only hug me from behind now, so that I can't hug him back. When I drop him off at school, he jumps out of the car while it's still moving. When I pick him up, he jumps in and yells, "Go! Go! Go!" as if he's just robbed a bank. Sometimes I ask him if he's told the other kids he's an orphan, and I'm blowing his cover. I try hard not to be insulted.
the other day my son; my towering, deep-voiced little boy so painfully in flux between his new life and his old, proudly handed me a box. Inside was a blue velvet pouch with a pair of pearl earrings. They are beautiful. They are my favorite. It was the most spot-on gift I've received from a male, regardless of age. The card read, in part, "I guess I should give you a hug because I don't give you any." I took the hug and the pearls, and I keep them both close to me as a reminder that there's still a little boy's heart inside that changing body.